Marionette
by Unpersonified
Summary: And so he remained, dangled by invisible strings – puppet evermore to the mistress whom he loved, and the master whom he hated. [AU] [Sephiroth x Cloud x Aerith]
1. Prologue: In Captivity

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**Title**: Marionette

**Genre**: Drama / Angst

**Rating**: M

**Pairing**: Sephiroth x Cloud x Aerith

**Warnings**: Nudity. Gratuitous gore. Violence and coarse language. Some disturbing scenes. Character Death. And perhaps some other not-so-miniscule additives, that, if need be, will be mentioned accordingly.

Lest you stray unwittingly into its imperilled depths, this is a darkfic. (As if that wasn't obvious enough!) One without any cute, fluffy bunnies whatsoever.

**A**/**N**: This was conceived from an impromptu attempt to coax my brother into reading fanfiction, which, upon his continued lack of interest, warped into this horrendously twisted thing. A dark tale recounting the ever-conflicting emotions of love and hate, enslavement, and the price one must pay for freedom.

**Disclaimer**: Me no own. The plot is mine, though.

**Plot** **Summary**: And so he remained, dangled by invisible strings – puppet evermore to the mistress whom he loved, and the master whom he hated. AU. Sephiroth x Cloud x Aerith.

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**m**arionette – a puppet moved by strings fixed to its jointed limbs.

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**P**rologue – **I**n **C**aptivity

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Darkness.

It was there, ever present, a canvas of imperfect black that stretched the entirety of his vision. Chill was its touch, empty, its breathless whisper – yet where promises not of solace it held, innumerable were the souls it had snared. Misled by the ease that which a hand should traverse its barren domain, many had wandered into its embrace unknowingly, only to find themselves caged within hollow walls. Hollow, but impenetrable.

He was accustomed to it, now.

Four steps forward, and two, transverse. That was the extent of his movement before shadow would deceive his eyes into believing otherwise. Economy, he understood, had dictated the cramped confines of his living accommodations, but even there was a limit to size before claustrophobia became imminent. It was as though the darkness was not oppressive enough already.

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly cynical, he would imagine that he'd gone blind. That the darkness, in its overwhelming abundance, had scorched the back of his eyes to leave naught but its inky residue. Perhaps then, could he revel in the illusion – for an illusion, it was, no better – that there was more than those hateful _four steps forward_, _and two_, _transverse_; that there were open fields beneath his soaring feet as he chased the sapphire sky.

Because he could not. He was tethered in irons, stowed away in the deepest corner of the Midgarian dungeons under lock and key.

Imprisoned.

Like countless soldiers who had crossed Shin-ra's path, he'd been bested in combat, then flung unceremoniously into any one of the remaining vacant cells. It mattered not what status he'd achieved in the military – he doubted they could accord suitable ranks to the various 'positions' within his ragtag army, anyway. All prisoners were treated alike – that meant that no special reservations were kept even for his makeshift title of 'Leader of Avalanche', the latter being the resistance force in his homeland of Nibelheim.

He preferred it that way. The anonymity lent him a greater sense of camaraderie, that he was suffering the same plight as his fellow comrades who obediently followed when he led that ill-fated charge against the Third Regiment of the Shin-ra Army. They were all proficient warriors, men and women alike, mastered in the ways of the sword. But being outnumbered ten-to-one could, by no means, put the battle into their favour.

So Nibelheim was lost. Her spirited people, her cherished traditions, her quiet, serene villages – all were rent asunder to further the cause of what was already the most powerful empire on the Planet.

That made his the greatest blame to bear.

If they had surrendered, then, at the very least, the townsfolk would have been spared. Downtrodden, they would be, into adopting Shin-ra's laws and customs as their own, but the soul that was Nibelheim would live forevermore in their midst, consecrated into eternal memory. Eventually, the war would end, and its captives set loose to roam free once more. They would return to the mountains, proud and undefeated, to sow again the seeds of their heritage upon the lands whence they came.

But the decision had not been to surrender.

So died his precious memories had then, smothered in the flames that engulfed his hometown. Atop the crimson hills littered anew with corpses of the falling fallen, he had seen it. The billowing cloud of black smoke that proclaimed he would never see his beloved again.

And therein, lay the first moment in his life where he was rendered unconscious.

The next he woke, he found himself here.

Darkness. The abyss' quintessence bled unceasingly upon the mortal realm. It had been his constant companion for almost three months now. Three months where he had sat lifelessly against the cold, damp wall, crying unshed tears for the things he'd lost. Or alternatively, seized by the madness that oft crept unbidden into the minds of the desolate, he'd count, in a reverent whisper, the slothful minutes that would meander by till the day of his death.

_This_ was the price he must pay.

For the fool who was Cloud Strife had succumbed to pride, and obliterated his own birthplace with it.

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It was around noon now, he decided, courtesy of his bizarre habit of enumerating time. But then again, it could be full dark, for all he knew. The sun neither rose nor set in the Midgarian dungeons – it was absent altogether, obscured by thick, concrete walls under which another twenty feet of opaque earth lay.

Indeed, the time of the day held no consequence whatsoever to him. Why bother to ponder, even if it be the choicest option in the list of activities present, about the kind of celestial luminescence one would be greeted by, in the oh-so-unreachable Outside World? Feeding Time weighed far greater of import. But alas, food consumed solely for the purpose of survival was food bereft of gratification.

Yet he could feel it. There was something about this 'noon'. Something almost comprehensible, but not, like water trickling between clasped hands. Something that had the potential to break him from this aimless monotony, if not alter the course of his destiny itself.

In hindsight, he couldn't have been more correct.

A soft light, no doubt spun of the mystique of materia, suddenly wove into existence at a corridor's end. Gracefully, it hovered forwards in his direction, all the while radiating threads of shimmering white that left him mesmerized by their splendor. Quiet rustling followed in its wake, brought about by the curious movements of his cell-mates. After all, the foreign shuffles of booted feet, in tandem with the equally foreign wafts of clean, crisp scents, could only indicate one thing:

A commotion was about to begin.

"Urgh!" A harsh, guttural voice, thickly roped with accent, spoke. "Dis place stink wuss dan chocobo shit!"

A snort ensued in response. "How so eloquently put." This voice, in contrast to the first, was smooth and deep, a blade of sleek, deadly steel compared to roughened burrs. "I'd imagine that you, of all people, would be used to the stench."

"Hmph!" An indignant exhalation, from the first speaker. "If yer been rakin' up dirt arun 'ere ev'ryday, yer – "

"I suggest you hop to it," overrode the second voice flawlessly, without missing a beat, "bilge rat. Surely your master would stand for less insolence, no?"

There was a pause in which incoherent mutters were heard, an opportune moment the one with the silky baritone used to address the third party.

"Professor?"

"Admittedly, 'tis filthy, indeed," came a slightly disgusted reply. Now, this voice could best be described as odd. While it was distinctly male, like the other two, it possessed a queer, wiry shrillness more befitting of a raven's caw. "No small wonder it would be, if a pile of fresh dead was dragged away every morn. Sir Dallanvor, just how certain are you of number one-nine-o-eight's current condition?"

"He is hale, if a little thin, Professor. The last customary inspection proceeded but yesternight."

"Indeed, indeed."

Three pairs of feet advanced ahead, the scuffs of their shod soles resounding ever louder in his ears. Were they heading… towards _him_?

And true enough, not half a moment later, the light was glaring at him. Gentle was the glow that materia offered, but too long had his eyes been accustomed to the dark. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the offending liquid that seeped involuntarily from their corners.

"Yer dun mean… _dis_ 'un?"

There they stood, before his cell, three men as different from each other as a Nibel Wolf was to a Sandworm (granted, he'd never encountered the latter, it being a mere illustration derived from a bestiary). The first, dressed in rather shabby-looking overalls, was short and stocky, his wide face widened still more with an unbecoming scowl. Behind him, was a tall and imposing Soldier of Shin-ra, whose assortment of metallic guards, belts and buckles, proved ineffectual at concealing his broad, powerful muscles. He was looking solemnly at the last, a spindly, stoop-necked man in a white lab-coat. The latter's fingers were interlaced behind his back, seemingly out of habit, but it occurred to Cloud that they may be as such to disguise a more sinister intent.

Unexpectedly, the Soldier's gaze flicked to Cloud for an instant, before resuming their former position upon the white-coated man. Was it a trick of the light, or did he see respect and pity in that instant when their eyes had met?

"Number one-nine-o-eight, as you've requested, Professor," his tone was stiffly formal, the tone Cloud knew to be favoured by military protocol. "The one by the name of Cloud Strife, correct? Former leader of Avalanche, he was, also, if that title is of any relevance to you."

The reply was a sparse, "Unfortunately, none."

Following those words, the white-coated man stepped up to the bars enclosing Cloud's cage, materia in outstretched hand. Thrown into stark relief by the sphere's light, were his peculiar features – his beardless face was sharp and angular, accentuated by square-rimmed monocles resting atop a pointed nose. Greasy raven hair was gathered into a loose ponytail at his nape, probably for the sake of convenience. Eyes, black as the depths of a bottomless pit, surveyed the dank surroundings with calculated interest, before coming to a halt at Cloud's own blue ones.

Under their intense scrutiny, he found himself trying to rearrange his body into a more dignified position, but his emaciated limbs would not comply. Having shackles around his ankles helped the situation not at all.

This ever-so-subtle attempt at defiance did not go unmissed by the other man, and his lips tugged upwards into an unpleasant grin.

"So, this is Cloud Strife," he twittered gleefully, in a manner more directed to himself than anyone else. "If the records are anything to go by, then the perfect specimen shall he be."

At that proclamation, Cloud felt his hackles rise on end. The only true quality he could put to that abnormally high-pitched, slightly quivering voice – was insanity.

Thankfully, the moment passed when the short, stocky man decided to speak up rather loudly.

"Speshimen?" he demanded huffily, causing two pairs (three, including Cloud's) of cool, irritated eyes to turn to him. "Like yer guinea pigs fer testin', _speshimen_?" that last word was imbued with particular scorn, accompanied by flying spit. He pointed at Cloud with a stubby finger. "Do yer know wot price dis face can fetch on da market? I'd be damned if I let dis little beaut' rot away in 'un of yer stinkin' labs!"

At that, something twitched in the bespectacled man's face. But he made no movement save to stride purposefully towards his impertinent addressee, who shrank backwards in contrast. Within five paces, however, the latter decided he'd had enough of being intimidated, and stood his ground. The defiant glower faded fast from his face, though. Spindly the Professor may be, but his height was by no means insignificant – he towered over the shorter man by a whole foot-and-a-half.

"I may be mistaken, _bilge rat_," he imitated the Soldier from before, cold superiority strewn across his features, "but our dear Shin-ra Inc. could hardly authorize the sudden ownership of inmates to one with such… _detestable_ penchants like yours."

Turning to his more compliant neighbour, he issued a quiet command, "Send them the confirmation documents, Sir Dallanvor. I want him in my lab by dusk."

The Soldier nodded respectfully. "It is as you say."

Extracting a manilla folder from under his coat, the bespectacled man presented the former to the Soldier, who received it deftly. He was gone shortly after in a flurry of metal clinks and clanks.

"But why 'im?" the short man grumbled, once the other man had vanished from view. "Dere are plenny udder healthier-lookin' 'uns – "

"What my research demands, gets, without question," snapped the Professor irritably, not even bothering to look at his dwarflike-in-comparison associate this time. Instead, he kept that eerie, disconcerting gaze upon Cloud. "Least of all, from dirt-rummaging scum who fail to note the importance of keeping their mouths shut."

The lack of eye contact spoiled the effect of his words somewhat, but they still must have been felt acutely, judging by the bouquet of colourful language that sprouted anew into the air.

A minute or so passed, before the jingle of armour echoed in the doorway, signifying the Soldier's return.

"All, done, Professor," his smooth, deep voice drawled. "Let us fly this place."

The white-coated man wasted no time with a reply, simply hurrying off with his companion to the exit. Deprived of more than half of its share of light, the dungeons grew noticeably dimmer, until the remaining visitor was all but a silhouette against a backdrop of grey stone.

"Looks like it's yer lucky day, pretty bird," the other man purred at him. Despite the murkiness of the illumination, the glint of lechery was clearly evident in those small, piggish eyes. He felt a growl rise in this throat. "Pity I wun get a chance to taste that lovely skin…"

Smacking his lips obscenely, he skipped down the corridor and out of sight, taking the last of the light with him.

Darkness enfolded Cloud once more.

Releasing a breath he did not realize he was suppressing, he sunk back onto the wall, contemplating the latest developments of his circumstance.

This was the chance he was waiting for, wasn't it? His chance to escape. Come tonight, when he was to be collected for transportation, they would have to undo the shackles that had enchained him for so long. With those loathsome iron cinctures removed from his feet, he could, at last, flee from the enemy's grasp, swift as the Nibel Wolf that roamed the mountains back home.

A shiver of thrill trickled down his spine at that prospect. Could he, really?

He lifted up a leg experimentally. At the aching protest of his muscles, he hastily set it back down.

No, he was much too weak. These months of detainment, few as they were, had already sapped all the zealous vigour that once belonged to his nimble limbs. They would overcome him in a matter of seconds.

Perhaps he could regain his strength in the place they would send him to. Doubtlessly, the conditions there should far outstrip those of the present. The Professor _had_ inquired after his health, yet.

And when he was fully restored… Be it by his small stature that another should underestimate him – they would suffer the consequences sorely.

And freedom would be his at long, long last.

For he was, after all, no docile lamb to be led to the slaughter.

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TBC…

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**A**/**N**: Hehe… Hojo was fun to write. Tricky, but fun. Opinions, opinions, I'm sure you have yours. Why neglect to let me know what you think?

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	2. Chapter 1: Mako

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**Warning**: Rating subjected to change. This chapter contains a rather disturbing scene. It certainly gave me the shudders.

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**C**hapter** 1** – **M**ako

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They had came, just as fate had dictated them to. Or the Professor. Whichever.

There was, first and foremost, light. Immaterial beings birthed of the highest empyrean, ever joyous and frolicsome in their luminescence's wake. They bounded along the corridors, unleashing their gaiety in a storm of colours that made even the solemn grey of the walls seem less gloomy.

The same light aglow on their cuirasses, two figures marched lazily down the entranceway, undoubtedly to the cell where he was currently housed. Already from afar, he had recognized them as Soldiers. Sharp was the metallic rattle that accompanied their armour's movements; even where distance obfuscated their profiles to a hazy silhouette, imperious pride was visibly writ into their stance – a signature of their knighthood.

A moment later had them fumbling with the padlocks to his chamber; their actions punctuated with the shrill applause of keys clapping in unison. He had no time to register the door swinging open, before the ferric tang of steel, in combination with the pungent musk of human sweat, pervaded his nostrils in a truly potent concoction that left him overwhelmed. Mechanically, the Soldiers slipped in, emotionlessness, their mask, silent, their lips.

Unconcernedly, yet without malice, they kneed him to the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back. The fetters around his ankles were removed subsequently, causing him to breathe a soft sigh in relief. Even if it be at the expense of his wrists, the feel of his freed feet was wondrous – a year's quarter was past time enough that irons had impressed their agonizing brand into his bones.

He was yanked to his feet next, and forced forward into an unsteady shuffle by the butt of a sword hilt. Although he had made no move to resist insofar, their handling was punishingly ungentle. Roughened, most likely, by days too many, with rebellious escapees and their own hardening hearts.

As to be expected, they were not surprised the least by his placid compliance. Defiant, nonchalant, and spiritless prisoners, they would have seen alike – what was he but a mere statistic to be categorized into the last? Yet without a mirror, he was already certain that his countenance spelt apparent defeat.

It had mattered not to them. They were merely doing their duty.

And correctly so, as discovered he in the eventide's morrow:

He had been hauled from the dungeons that was his cage for three months –

Only to be placed into another.

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"Reenacting phase one."

It was that stringy, curiously high-pitched voice again. Hojo, he had heard them call him.

The fact that the Professor was indeed a – _scientist_ – had accorded him no surprise. Although he, as was due of his being raised in the comparatively primitive, unsophisticated outback, barely understood the term at all, he did understand that it suited the man perfectly.

Yes, the Professor was a scientist. And a deranged, inhumanly cruel one, at that.

For what, if history of animosity were non-existent, could possibly prompt someone to subject a fellow human being to the torture that inevitably came with rigorous testing? Would not even tautened strings of empathy relent at their victims' pitiable suffering, to emblazon upon their hearts the immorality of their deeds?

Well, he supposed not. In life's malicious twist of reality, he had been reduced from a proud, renowned warrior to a hapless captive of 'those insurgent trash'. Fallen Doomsday would have first, before the poorest scraps of humanity's rights would be dredged up, mixed into swine fodder, then fed at last to his kind.

_Because he was less than human, now. He was –_

According to them, the way of his people was woefully uncivilized. Barbaric, even. Technological advancement marked the value of their society's worth, and for retaining the ancestral, eon-old methods of doing things, he was thereby branded a member of a sub-intelligent, inferior species. Why expend resources and effort to dignify one, who had not the intellectual capacity required, as a proper human being, when it was better suited to take the brunt of research?

– _a **laboratory specimen**_.

Upon his arrival, he had been undressed, powdered, shaven, measured – stripped of all bodily dignity he had ever possessed. They had shamelessly scissored through his tattered jail uniform, and showed equal contempt for his undergarments. A bucketful of white powder had been dumped upon him next, triggering a paroxysm of convulsive sneezing. His golden braids – oh, his prized golden braids! – had cascaded snippet-by-snippet to his feet in vast, withering piles, sheared off as carelessly as one would shear a sheep. Then, as if that wasn't enough, they had produced a marked tape from nowhere, taking measurements at every nook and cranny of his body – from the girth of his waist and hips, to the length of his limbs, to some detail hitherto unknown between his legs…

So immense was the shame that he could have died from it.

He was certain they would have attempted to wash him as well, had he not snarled and threatened death with his eyes. Cold, indifferent stares had hung on him for a moment longer than was usual, before he was directed, still naked beyond nakedness, to the showers. Even sheltered behind the cubicle as he was, he could not escape their scrutiny. Their incessant observation seeped through the tiled walls, instilling the more into his gut the nausea of dread the harder he tried to scrub off the feel of their eyes upon his skin.

Then he had been dried and ushered into some ominous-looking room, all with rapid efficiency.

So here he was, blindfolded and bound facedown onto an operating table by solid metal gyves around his joints. Awaiting his doom.

Left without the all-important sense of sight, he could only rely on his nose and ears for perception. The air was thick with an acrid scent – this, he recognized to be the intoxicant present in rosewine, his homeland's brew. Apart from a few indistinct clinks and clanks that hardly indicated what the other occupant of the room was up to, there was only silence.

It was not fit for a warrior like he to succumb to the failings of the inner instincts, but fear had already enclosed his heart in a vicegrip. He was, in short, terrified.

"Date?" droned Hojo's voice monotonously, as though citing the words he was currently inscribing onto a sheet of paper. The latter was evidenced by the scratchy hiss characteristic of a quill. "September thirteenth, eighteen fifty-seven. Time? First hour of twilight, sixteenth minute past. Hypothesis? That the organic, biologically indegradable fluoro-compound PAV-212, otherwise known as mako, incites rapid restoration of any damaged body tissue – " he cut himself off suddenly…

And continued, inexplicably lowering his voice to a muttered whisper, "– _and thus_, _should be prohibited no longer for standard laboratory use. Such asinine fools they are, unable to realize its worth! Enhancements for SOLDIER, medical procedures…_"

Footfalls of booted soles grew louder and louder, indicating the Professor's approach.

He cleared his throat, resuming his previous volume. "Test subject: _Homo sapiens_, Number XLIV." There was unmistakable glee in his tone, glee that foretold of evil, twisted things to come. An involuntary shudder made its way down Cloud's spine. "Age: estimated to be of nineteen or twenty years, sex: male, ancestry: Nibel purebred of Strife lineage. Identical genetic background to Number XXVIII – possibility of inbreeding for maximal genotype expression."

"Particular traits of note? Venous sample yielded haemoglobin oxygen saturation of approximately four percent – twice that of control. Hence, increased capability of meeting metabolic demands of accelerated regeneration. Most veritable cause? Physiological adaptation to low atmospheric pressures typical of mountainous habitat. Excellent, excellent."

Footfalls again, only they were becoming fainter this time. Hojo had drifted away to examine something (else).

"Quantity of anaesthetic to be administered? None. Reason? To ascertain magnitude of prostagladin secretion at damage site."

"Allocation of injury?" At those words – the few that he actually understood – Cloud felt his muscles tense up almost painfully. Blind panic overtook him then, causing him to strain against his bonds for but the umpteenth time, only to no avail. "Two three-inch slits, sterilized, to be situated alongside the thoraic vertebrae, below scapulae. Extends to the depth of the _longissimus thoracis_. No visceral damage is to be done."

"Dosage of mako? Isotonic saline with solute concentration of point-o-one molarity."

He stilled. The other man's breath was warm on his back. He clenched down on his jaw, hard, to prevent a whimper from escaping his teeth.

"Beginning experiment. Proceeding with incision."

Coldly, bit steel into flesh.

His body jerked in response, but he deliberately forced himself to motionlessness, lest the cut extend deeper than originally intended. There was no certainty that could be derived from a lunatic's words – what was to say that Hojo would not turn spastic at the sight of blood, and gouge out the rest of his intestines? Well, his previous action would be useless, if that was so. He was mercifully disproved, however, when the flare of pain repeated itself on his left side with the same precision, immediately after.

The initial aftershocks of this injury were endurable, at least. Many a time had he been cut similarly during battle, whether it be from a careless abandonment of defense on his part, or a cleverly landed strike by his opponent.

But the pain would intensify nonetheless, when left to its own devices. Or by another…

The queasy lump that was his stomach tightened still more as he heard a faint clinking of glass, followed by the _pop_ sound of a flask being uncorked.

Then he was burning, burning in the throes of pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Not only did his back feel like it was roasting over Hell's furnace, but his entire body also; his flesh ripped from the bone as it dissolved into ash. There was only pain, _pain_, searing pain – he could not think, he could not breathe, it was stabbing into him like a million jagged knives –

He screamed.

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TBC…

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**A**/**N**: A short chapter, I know. But I've done my homework. Sciencespeak isn't the easiest of dialogue.

I must have discovered a new vein of sadism. Poor Cloud. Heheheh…

And before you ask, the explanation for Cloud's braids (shock horror!) will be in the upcoming chapter. No, it has nothing to do with him being a transvestite, or anything vaguely of that kind.

On a miscellaneous note, Cloud hasn't spoken a single word since the story began. Well, that's to be expected, isn't it?

Now, where are my reviews?

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